


west

by ghostmachine



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-19 02:49:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20323852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostmachine/pseuds/ghostmachine
Summary: You’re homesick for a feeling, and yet somehow perfectly happy. She is your true north, beckoning you forward. She grips your arms tightly./ /Anne is thriving in the corporate world. Ann is along for the ride. modern au.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know what this is or why it’s so long or why I’m only capable of writing fluff, but I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title and lyrics taken from Sleeping at Last’s West.

_ map stretched out _

_ too many miles to count _

_ let’s just say we’re inches apart _

_ and even closer at heart _

_ and we’ll be just fine _

* * *

You shift nervously from one foot to the other, waiting for a town car on a busy Manhattan street. It is 8pm and you’re still jet lagged from yesterday’s trip; Heathrow to LaGuardia always takes a lot out of you, and if it weren’t for a certain someone you'd have put an end to all this travel months ago. 

But Anne is thriving in her new position: senior vice president at just 35 years old, and you can’t imagine not being along for the ride. You’ve watched her fret over business deals during her morning coffee, spent many late hours half asleep on the couch, waiting for her to come home, hidden her phone more than once as a last ditch attempt at seduction. 

And of course, this life has its difficult days, nights when harsh words are thrown like daggers, only to be taken back in bed with lips pressed to soft skin. There are those days, few and far between, when you’re able to convince yourself that Anne loves her job more than she loves you. 

But it’s nights like these—when you get to see Anne is action—that open your eyes, make every complication in your relationship worth it. Your girlfriend shines in her element, and on these occasions you’re able to join her, she makes you feel as though you’re an essential part of that glow. She makes every inch of you bright and you feel radiant: with pride, with love, with hope. 

And it’s not as if you’re overwhelmed with downtime; you’d opened your own art gallery just a few neighborhoods over nearly two years ago. You’ve hired enough help to remove yourself from day to day responsibilities, preferring to focus on acquisition and curation. Thankfully, this means that most of your work can be done from home. You stop by the gallery a few times a week to ensure that everything is running smoothly. 

The flat you share with Anne is huge by London’s standards, a benefit of your large inheritance and Anne’s new, sizable salary; the second bedroom serves as a home office for the both of you, but you love working in the living room as the large windows offer an immaculate view of the comings and goings of the city. Anne often teases you, running her finger along the dust that has settled on the office desk, only to curl up on the couch beside you to people watch. 

The past few years have seen you both settle into a quiet domesticity, something you could have never guessed would suit the two of you so well. You make easy meals in the crockpot you’re incapable of burning and Anne takes leftovers with her to the office; Saturdays are often spent sleepily, kettle on as you and Anne clean floors and countertops; you host guests—the Lister family, your friends from university, an occasional old flame of Anne’s—on a regular basis, plating takeout and going through way too many bottles of wine. 

At the center of it all is the calm that is your relationship. What started as a tenuous thing full of unshared baggage and emotional turmoil has settled into the kind of comfort people dream of, a sure thing to tout against the chaos of life. 

So when Anne moved into this new job a year ago, a job which sent her soaring from country to country, it was a given that you would tag along. And you’ve made it work, managing the gallery remotely when needed, making appointments with local artists, booking the same hotel rooms each trip for a sense of consistency. 

Admittedly it isn’t ideal. You miss your bed and tire of eating out. You’ve developed a weird crick in your neck from all the flying. And despite your relative proximity to Anne, she’s working long hours, sometimes 12 hour days, too exhausted to hold a conversation when she finally arrives at your hotel room. On those nights, she pulls you in, nuzzles into oversized pillows, and murmurs gratitude into the wisps of hair that fall against your cheek. 

She thanks you, always, for bearing with her.

* * *

_another pin pushed in_

_ to remind us where we've been _

_ and every mile adds up _

_ and leaves a mark on us _

_ and sometimes our compass breaks _

_ and our steady true north fades _

_ we'll be just fine _

* * *

You’re toying at the string of pearls around your neck (a birthday gift from Anne) when the black sedan pulls up in front of your hotel. 

“Miss Walker?” the driver asks, and you nod before sliding into the back seat. 

Anne has been back and forth between your home in London and New York City for the past six months, and had been hoping to finalize the deal earlier this afternoon. Weary of disclosing any details via text, Anne had promised to fill you in at the gala tonight, a charity event co-sponsored by her firm and their soon to be partner. 

These events always make you anxious (once, early in your relationship, you’d actually broken out into hives during the keynote address and hidden in the restroom for the remainder of the night. Anne often cites this as the night she fell in love with you, pressing soft kisses to your reddening chest and pushing you against the sink. You blush at the memory.) 

The fashion, the makeup—those parts come easy to you, having grown up in a rather high society. You’d slipped into this gorgeous, midnight blue cocktail dress and made your way to the lobby in four inch stilettos with practiced ease. It’s the socialization that you don’t have the muscle memory for, meeting dozens of new people with all sorts of connections and job titles. You worry you’ll embarrass Anne and so most nights you keep conversations brief, happy to play the trophy girlfriend if it means avoiding another recap of someone’s family vacation to England. 

Sooner than you’d like your car stops in front of the The Met and you take a deep breath, bracing yourself against the swarm of people just outside the door. You manage to wade your way through and make it inside. 

The scene in the lobby takes your breath away, warm colors projected around the room and sparkling decor everywhere you look. You feel as though you must be in a dream, and despite your upbringing you feel so out of place. 

Frantically your eyes search for her and, as usual, she is easy to find, the only woman in the room foregoing a dress for a dapper suit. You see her just across the room and for a moment you watch her. Absorbed in conversation with a younger looking gentleman, she grasps a flute of champagne with one hand, the other dug into the pocket of her sharp black trousers. Her chestnut hair falls beyond her shoulders (you’d urged her to grow it out several months ago and, as suspected, you adore the way your hand fists in it when she’s making love to you). Her blazer is perfectly tailored and you long to run your hands under her crisp white button up. She laughs at something the man says and you feel a strange reverse possessiveness, a surrender, swear she owns the oxygen in your lungs. 

Finally, having had your fill and desperate to be near her, you cross the room and slip your hand behind her back, clutching at her waist. 

“Ann!” she exclaims, and you recognize the look in her eyes as one of intellectual excitement, coupled with the warmth she usually greets you with. “You’ve arrived just in time, Mr. Washington and I are debating Monet’s finest works.”

Mr. Washington extends a hand and you untangle yourself from Anne to shake it lightly. 

“Ann Walker,” you say, and you can’t help but wish your name matched the woman’s next to you. 

“A pleasure, Ms. Walker, to finally meet you! Anne has told us—well, honestly, not a lot, but that’s par for the course for Ms. Lister, isn’t it? Plays things close to the vest, this one. Now, as I was saying, Monet’s haystacks are spectacular in their banality…”

You’re grateful for a subject you can contribute to, having studied art history as an undergraduate. You almost suspect that Anne had planned this in advance, catching the delighted glances she gives you when you ramble on about _ Starry Night _. You feel yourself relaxing as the conversation flows, feel warm when Anne slides her hand down your arm and entangles your fingers with hers. Before you know it you’ve been talking for—

“Good lord, look at the time!” Anne says, gazing at her watch. “Washington, we best take our seats before we miss the ceremony.”

You wish Mr. Washington a wonderful evening before turning to Anne, who leans in close to you. 

“Darling,” she husks in your ear, “you look _ divine _.”

A shiver runs down your delicate spine and swallow hard, holding her gaze for what feels like an eternity. 

“You clean up pretty nice, too, Ms. Lister,” you say, smoothing down a non-existent crease in the collar of her button down, and your flirting is shameless. Without any alcohol in your system you feel half drunk, intoxicated by this woman who chooses you, who includes you, who loves you. 

“Shall we find our seats?”

* * *

_ time moves slow _

_ when half of your heart _

_ is yet to come home _

_ every minute’s adding up _

_ and leaving a mark on us _

_ i can’t get you out of my mind _

_ i solemnly swear _

_ swear that I’ll never try _

_ we’ll be just fine _

* * *

It’s late, well past midnight, when the two of you stumble out of the gala. You’re both giddy, from champagne and the success of Anne’s deal finally closing and a beautiful night spent halfway across the world. Your heart races in your chest at the memory of Anne on stage, presenting a charitable gift on behalf of her firm and looking like every one of your fantasies come to life. She’d glanced at you and winked, sending your head spinning, and when she’d returned to her seat next to you, you could practically feel your skin burning where it touched hers. 

After nearly four years you are still so enchanted with her, this flawed and beautiful woman who is breaking down barriers, building a career for herself and a home for the two of you. 

You begin to walk toward the street to grab a cab when she tugs at your hand, pulls you back toward the park. 

“Come now, Ann, what’s the point of visiting New York without getting lost in the park?”

Despite your better judgement (the jetlag has you exhausted and you worry that walking through the park this late might not be the safest option) her mischievous smile entices you, and you find yourself falling in stride with her. 

The path narrows and widens, twists and bends, and you’re only half noticing where you’re going, instead listening with rapt attention as Anne relays the details of the deal she had finally closed with the American firm. She talks quickly, with so much excitement and technical details you only half understand. 

“So I’ll just need to visit once a quarter or so,” she explains, “much less than in the past six months, but I can’t tell you what this will do for our global reach. I’m _ finally _accomplishing what they hired me to do.”

Anne beams down at you. 

“I’m so proud of you, babe,” you say sincerely, and you think that every late night was worth it to see her like this. 

“Well, I certainly couldn’t have done it without your support. You’ve been so...understanding, patient with me. And now,” she grins, “I think you and I are well due for a vacation.”

You both stop under a street lamp and you note your surroundings, lost in Central Park’s summer greenery, some flowery smell surrounding you, not another soul in sight. You realize it’s the first time in months you’ve felt truly alone with her—no phone buzzing on the bedside table, no emails waiting to be answered. Stepping in close, you take her hand in yours. 

“You did promise to take me to Paris,” you tease, biting your lip, “though we always said we would go for our—“

“Honeymoon. Yes, I suppose I did promise that, didn’t I? Sadly, I don’t see a ring on your finger, Ms. Walker.”

You’re still a little buzzed and feeling bold, so you hold your left hand in front of her face and wiggle your fingers slightly. 

“Well, feel free to rectify that any time, _ Ms. Lister _.”

You’re only half joking; you’ve been leaving hints for months that you’re ready to marry her. Still, you feel your heart stop momentarily when she drops to one knee in front of you. 

“I suppose now is as good of a time as any, then, isn’t it?” Anne digs in her pocket and reveals a small black box. Suddenly you’re finding it hard to breathe and you wonder if this is your mind playing tricks on you, over-tired and hallucinating. She gazes up at you. 

“These past few months, Ann,” she says, her voice wavering, “have been trying, I know.” She takes a deep breath, shakes her head, and in that moment you fully appreciate the toll each mile has taken on her. You see the lines around her lips, her eyes, and you love her more now than ever. 

“But they’ve also shown me,” she continues, “...how much I am willing to do to make our relationship work. And how much you’re willing to sacrifice for me. I mean, god, how many times have you traversed the Atlantic, just to be with me?”

Part of you knows the question is rhetorical and yet you find yourself squeaking out “five times.”

She laughs. 

“Five times. And darling, I hope you know I’d do the same for you.”

And you do. 

She opens the velvet box in her hand and the ring inside is immaculate, a dark stone centered among diamonds and it’s so perfectly her, so perfectly _ both of you _that tears spring to your eyes. 

“I want to spend my life with you, Ann, if you’ll have me.”

You gape at her for a moment before realizing you need to respond, and suddenly you’re nodding your head vigorously and pulling her up to you. 

“Yes,” you breathe, kissing her cheek, her neck, anything you can reach, “yes, of course, yes.”

She beams before kissing you properly, stars exploding behind your eyelids and mirroring the secluded sky above. She slips the ring onto your finger and the weight of it shocks you, elates you. 

You stand there, at the center of the world, embracing each other, feeling the gravity of everything your relationship represents. 

You’re lost in her perfume, the memory of her hair on your pillowcase. You think of your flat, her feet padding around on hardwood; the reflection of her smile in the kitchen window; the way she kisses you slow after a long day at work. You’re homesick for a feeling, and yet somehow perfectly happy. She is your true north, beckoning you forward. She grips your arms tightly. 

A biker whizzes by you, ringing his bell and breaking your reverie, and you both laugh at the absurdity. She stops mid-laugh to yawn, and you’re finally able to notice your head swimming with exhaustion. 

“Come on,” you say, tugging her along, “let’s go get some sleep.”

* * *

While your hotel room has nothing of the comfort of your flat, you breathe deeply and feel sleep come fast. Tucked tightly into Anne’s chest, you know you’re home wherever she is. 

* * *

_ we’ll be just fine _

_ we’ll be just fine _

_ it’s a matter of time _

_ til our compass stands still _

_ til our compass stands still _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess i couldn't stay away from this one! please note the new rating. lyrics in the chapter are taken from Noah Gundersen's Little Cup.

_what can I say?_   
_ I melt upon the altar of your grace_   
_ my mouth is pretty desperate for a shape_   
_ so I can say_   
_ that I remain  
forever yours_

* * *

You wake far too early the morning after; even with the blinds closed, you can tell that the sun has yet to rise. Anne has an alarm set for 7:00 AM, conservative timing for your flight back home. Given how late you’d be out last night, you’ve only been asleep for a few hours. 

And yet, you find yourself tossing and turning, unable to fall back to asleep. 

You’re just able to see the outline of Anne’s figure next to you, facing toward you, her hair fanned out across the pillow. You reach out to twirl a strand between your fingers gently. 

_ Fiancée _, you think idly, fidgeting with the ring on your left finger. Anne had caught you in the bathroom last night, toothbrush forgotten in your mouth as you sleepily admired the effect of your ring in the overhead lights. She just chuckled and kissed your cheek, wiped the dribble of toothpaste from your chin.

You warm at the memory, mold your body close against hers. You call her your space heater as she’s always burning up at night, to the point where you almost only ever sleep with a sheet covering you. You bury your face in the crook of her neck, wrap your arm around her waist, taste sweat on her skin where you kiss her. 

And you know you should let her sleep, but you’ve really never been able to help yourself in these early morning hours. Not when it comes to her, anyways. 

Your brain still cloaked in a thin haze of sleep, your lips curl into a mischievous smirk as your tongue drags a line up to her ear. You sigh deeply there, hoping to rouse her. 

It works.

“Miss Walker,” she grumbles, and her gravelly voice only serves to turn you on more, “it had better be 6:59 AM.”

You see the glint of her eyes as they open in the dark, giggle softly. You kiss her soundly and that seems to wake her up. 

“Never mind what time it is,” you tease. “Your _ fiancée _ is in need of attention.”

Her hand moves to grip your waist tightly, sneaking under your night shirt to graze your ribs one by one. You shiver. 

“Well, in that case,” she growls but doesn’t finish the thought, instead moving to lay her body firmly on top of you. 

Her weight is delicious against you and you moan when her tongue slips between your teeth. 

You hadn’t exactly entered into your relationship with a wealth of experience; the extent is a few drunken nights with fellow dorm girls in college, hands unfocused and everywhere, ultimately disappointing.

But you feel sure that nothing could have prepared you for your body’s overwhelming response to her, time and time again. The beginning of your relationship was a frenzy; you hadn’t been able to keep your hands off of her. It was thoroughly inappropriate but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when she touched you so well and everywhere: in the backs of cabs, her office, even once beneath a table at dinner with your friends. You were both insatiable and you often found yourself wondering what had suddenly possessed you, how you could possibly want one person so badly. 

Though the honeymoon phase had eventually faded off, you’re still breathless each time she touches you.

And she does. 

Firm hands squeeze your breasts and your hips jerk upward of their own accord. It’s too dark to see the smirk you know she’s wearing and so you seek it out with your mouth. You love these lazy moments when your urgency does not get the best of you; you are free to enjoy each other, simply, wonderfully, hands fisting into hair, cheeks flushed. 

She kisses at your neck, the hollow of your clavicle, knows all the spots that drive you wild. Her hips move slowly against you and you’re pretty sure you’ll combust if she doesn’t touch you immediately. 

“_ Babe _,” you husk into her ear, and it’s all you have to say--she knows you, always knows what you need. She chuckles, moves to lay next to you. Her fingers tease, brushing the insides of your thighs, and you wonder in that moment what she’s thinking. All your brain can process between sighs and moans, heavier and heavier as her hand moves higher, is an unwavering commitment. You never want another person to know you like this.

She touches you gently and your back stretches tight, an arrow on a bow pulled taut. Two fingers rub circles against you, making you squirm. Vaguely, you register that the sun must be making its way over the Manhattan high rises, light peeking through the crack in the blinds. A line of gold light streams across her face and she’s grinning, her eyes are soft, gazing at you. You belong to her. 

Two fingers slip inside of you easily and you groan, know this won’t take long. She moves slowly, grinding herself on your leg. You feel euphoria approach with each thrust of her hand between your thighs, decide you could never get enough of her. You come with her name on your lips, the shape of everything she is forming itself in your mouth. 

You’re breathless next to her as she grabs her phone, checking the time as is her routine. 

“Oh good,” she says with biting sarcasm, “only six more hours til our flight.”

You laugh.

“I’ll buy you a coffee.”

“Funnily enough, I’m already feeling rather wired.” 

She pulls you in to kiss you and you can barely reciprocate, your smile is stretched so wide. 

* * *

_say you won’t ever leave_   
_ ever go  
always stay_

_ through the changes the heart stays the same  
_ _ same as it’s always been _

* * *

As it happens, your flight is delayed three hours. She sleeps on your shoulder in the terminal, chocolate from a Starbucks croissant crusted at the corner of her mouth. You feel tenderness isolated, joy invincible. Somehow, despite the ring now sitting prominently on your finger, no different than when you had left London. 

You think the first thing you’ll do when you land is call Elizabeth, Marian, share the good news. They’ll be ecstatic, excited to plan invitations and floral arrangements, drive both yourself and Anne insane. The two of you will laugh about it after, the absurd affection of your sisters. 

You chuckle at the thought of what you’ve gotten yourself into, feel Anne sit upright. 

“What’s so funny?” she asks, blinking her eyes against the harsh daylight out the window. 

“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head, and they finally call to board your zone. 

She gives you that look you’ll never tire of, tilts her chin toward the jet bridge. 

“Shall we?”

As if life is starting all over, you board your plane for a destination more than 3,000 miles away. The constant is the warm hand in yours, writing an unspoken language on your skin. You take a deep breath. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! would love to hear any thoughts or prompts for this little world - come find me on tumblr @thedarkestseas

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Don’t be surprised if this becomes a series of random fluff moments 🤷🏻♀️
> 
> come find me on tumblr @thedarkestseas!


End file.
